War Of Consequence
by Dippy Conlon
Summary: On the brink of war with the Bronx, Manhattan goes to Brooklyn. When the two sides join in a war against the Bronx, only death, pain, and tragedy can be created. Currently on hold.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

It was dark. The only light piercing the incredible dark of the night came from the dim streetlamps. He stayed in the shadows, avoiding that small bit of light. He did not want to be seen.

He had a mission, a duty. It was not one he wished to fulfill. He would be setting into motion something that would be impossible to stop through its wild, reckless course, inevitably arriving at death after passing through pain and tragedy.

He did not want the responsibility of this on his shoulders. It was too much for any one person to bear. Though it was not his fault, nor his decision, he would be easiest to blame. The expression, 'do not kill the carrier', often lost its meaning in the most dire of circumstances. He was also easier to blame than the one who sent him here. He was easier to blame than the situation he was about to begin.

It was not right. The moral thing to do would be to turn around and go. He would face the punishment there instead of suffering an eternal one after his death. His soul would be clean of this intolerable sin. However, nothing would change. If he did not begin it, someone else would. It was inevitable.

Was merely saving his soul worth this? He knew all too well what his punishment upon returning unsuccessfully would be. He had seen it first hand and had heard of it second hand. It was equally, if not more, painful than Hell. If he returned without performing this task, he would face torture, if not death. Was the sacrifice worth it?

He was not certain. His life had not been clean and pure so far, how could he be sure that he was not already condemned to Hell? If he were, a longer life was preferable.

The very idea of returning was enough to send shivers down his spine. The scenes he had witnessed before flashed across his mind, though his face had replaced that of the real victim. He was being slowly bled to death through small cuts and stabs. He was being beaten cruelly and callously. He was having his hands burned until they were nothing more than fleshy blobs sitting at the end of his arms. He was having small parts of his body, such as fingers and toes, cut off. He was dying. His screams were ringing through the room, to the amusement of his torturer.

No, he could not go back with this order incomplete. He could try to run. However, he knew he would be found. Nothing could help him now. He had to make the decision. There were two choices. He could follow orders and face the consequences of that, or he could disobey orders and face the consequences of that action. Neither choice was appealing.

He sighed and climbed the stairs. He stood before the door without moving for a moment. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed a sheet of paper against the door. He held it there for a time.

Was there a third option he had not yet found? He was positive that there was not. He knew the way this worked. Obey and be spared, disobey and be punished. There was nothing in between these two extremes.

He sighed. His shoulders slumped. He knew what he must do. He was too weak for anything else. With a quick, fluid motion, he stabbed a knife through the paper, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the night. It was done.

There was no turning back. It had begun. No one could stop it now, not before it had finished.

Written in blood red ink, gruesomely contrasting with the white paper, the following message was tacked to the door of the Manhattan Lodging House.

__

The war has begun.

-J


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I should hope that we all know that, but I'll say it anyway. Maybe one day I can look back at this and say that it is a lie. Hey, I can always dream, can't I?

Chapter 1:

The Bronx was attacking and Brooklyn was alienated; Manhattan was on the verge of destruction.

Dawn had brought the note into view. Jack Kelly could not remember who had brought it to him. The message had driven all else from his mind.

It was not unexpected. The threat of war from the Bronx had been imminent for nearly a month. Jack had not dealt with it for various reasons. The most prominent of which had been his uncertainty. The truth was that Jack had not known what to do. The situation utterly stumped the boy normally full of brilliant, if not odd, ideas. He was at a loss for which action to take. There was no wild, elaborate plan pushing into his thoughts. The Manhattan newsies were not strong enough for an outright battle against the Bronx. There was only one thing to do: nothing. Jack had done nothing.

One could not stop Javier with nothing. Even with considerable resistance, the odds of stopping him were nearly nonexistent. The Bronx leader's latest fancy was to expand his territory. Unfortunately for Jack, he had his eye on Manhattan. Javier would use whatever forces and measures available to him in order to fulfill his desires. These forces were much too strong for Jack to oppose.

Under normal circumstances, Jack would have run to Brooklyn and begged for Spot's help. Jack would not admit to its being begging, but he did not need to. It was obvious enough.

Jack could not request the aid of the Brooklyn newsies in this matter, however. He had said too much.

It had been at the very table at which Jack now sat that he had killed Manhattan and any chances they might have had against the Bronx. It was the very spot that he had lost Brooklyn. It was the location at which Jack had insulted Spot Conlon.

It had begun with a friendly game of poker. Spot had stopped by to catch up on Manhattan news. It had been nearly two months since his last visit. Racetrack, seeing an opportunity for a poker game, immediately challenged the Brooklyn leader. An eager gleam appeared in his large, blue eyes as he accepted.

The game began after Racetrack had recruited a few other boys. However, Spot and Jack were the ones to face off in the end.

The group sat still, all eyes upon the two leaders. For a moment, no one moved. The silence was constricting, not even allowing the observers to breathe. Jack broke the peace; he adjusted his hat so that it shaded his eyes.

Spot smirked amusedly, cocking an eyebrow at his opponent's action as he leaned back in his chair. He made a small motion with his right hand, gesturing for Jack to lay out his cards. The condescending movement made Jack's blood boil with rage, but he remained calm as he carelessly threw his cards onto the table. He had a flush.

Spot took no immediate action, which gave Jack a premature cockiness. He reached for the money with a grin. Jack was so focused on the winnings that he did not see Spot move. Suddenly, the gold-tipped cane smacked his knuckles lightly.

Jack tipped his face upwards to meet Spot's eyes. A frown of confusion crossed the features of the lower boy. Spot was smirking.

"Sit down, Jackie-boy," he shook his head slightly, his smirk still in place. Jack resumed his seat, perplexed by Spot's actions, but deciding that it would be best to go along with them. Spot watched him and waited patiently until he was fully seated.

A single card fell slowly onto the table. It was the King of Hearts. Spot threw a smirk in Jack's direction. The other boy could only watch as Spot continued. The second card found itself carefully placed next to the first. It was the King of Diamonds. Spot glanced up at Jack, seeming to expect something. He did not react, and Spot resumed his task. The next card was the King of Spades; it landed with equal care, perfectly in line with the preceding two. Jack's eyes had widened a bit when Spot had finished with this card. A small laugh was heard from Spot, he had been waiting for that. A fourth card lowered to the table. This revealed itself the Six of Diamonds. Jack's jaw clenched. There was only one card left. Jack anxiously watched it, much to Spot's amusement. The Brooklyn boy carefully removed all traces of excitement from his features when Jack flicked his eyes upward. The two sat in a silent contest, neither blinking nor moving. Without breaking the gaze, Spot placed the final card on the table. Jack could not bring himself to look for a moment. There was a command in Spot's eyes, which remained locked onto Jack's, that ordered him to look down. Sitting in line with the other four cards, was the Six of Hearts.

"Full house, Jack. Now, keep your dirty hands off me money before I remove 'em permanently," Spot spoke to Jack, but his fellow newsie was in shock. Upon realizing that Jack was not responding, Spot grinned. "Eh, Jack, it's only a card game."

The prolonged pause was broken. Spot began to gather his money as the rest of the table congratulated his win. The positive words descended upon him, though they affected the listener more than the recipient. Spot expected them; Jack noticed them. These were supposed to be his newsies. Upon his victory over their leader, the foreign leader should not earn praise. They should be arguing for him.

"Dirty, cheating bastard," Jack muttered darkly under his breath. His scowl fell away to an expression of terror as Spot once again used the cane against him. It pointed directly at his face, barely an inch from contact with his nose. Through wide eyes, Jack could see a furious Spot Conlon just beyond the tip.

The blue eyes burned with an intense passion that Jack had never before seen. They seemed to radiate heat as he glared unblinkingly at Jack, his jaw clenched tightly shut in rage. The eyes narrowed a bit as Spot shook his head slightly.

"You wanna say that again, Jack?" his tone was cold and dangerous, with an underlying hint of warning. It was suddenly apparent to Jack that Spot would connect that cane with his head and never think twice.

"No, it was nuttin'," Jack stammered. Spot smoothly retracted and returned the cane to his belt loop. His face relaxed into a satisfied smirk as he nodded in Jack's direction and sat back down. Jack breathed a small sigh of relief.

However, Jack had not learned. As he slowly regained confidence and participated in the conversation, he made a deadly error. He insulted Spot again. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he froze. Spot glared, a deadly glare; everyone knew that Jack had gone too far.

"Jack, I've had just about enough of your lip for one day," Spot told him through clenched teeth, a finger in the air. The moment Spot began to speak, a hush fell over the room. No one dared speak up for his leader. "Just give me a reason and I'll-"

"You'll what?" Jack retorted, cutting off the Brooklyn leader with his comment. It was too much to resist. Jack was nothing if not brave. With his own newsies not defending him, he had no choice but to defend himself.

"That's it, Jack," he stood, smacking the table with his cane to emphasize his point. Spot paused for a moment debating whether to begin a fight or not. He was in Manhattan, so they would pull him off quickly, though there was no doubt that he could cause considerable damage in that time. However, such measures were not necessary. "Nah, you ain't worth it."

"Get out, Spot," Jack growled, also standing.

"Nobody orders Spot Conlon around," was the furious and infuriating answer. "I leave when I choose to leave. And I choose to leave 'cause this place ain't worth my time."

With that, Spot turned on his heel and left Manhattan behind. The door banged shut behind him, causing the eruption of admonishments from the newsies.

Jack had caused a larger problem than he had known at the time. He only realized the full consequences of his actions now, as he sat facing war with the Bronx.

Single-handedly, he had destroyed his newsies. Jack, their leader, the one they trusted to keep them safe, had opened his mouth and estranged their last ally. He had taken the knife, sharpened it, and drove it into each of their hearts. He had killed them.

With Brooklyn, Manhattan might have stood a chance. The Brooklyn boys were exactly what Jack needed. They were sly, strong, and fearsome. However, their one most prominent quality was their loyalty to Spot Conlon. They would not help one who insulted their leader, not under penalty of death.

What was he to do? Jack could only think of one thing. He could not convince himself to take this action, though. It involved too much groveling and humiliation. He would not do it.

"But what else is there?" Jack asked himself, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair. It was all so confusing. This is why he had tried to maintain peace with the other territories. His was not strong enough for a war. He had done so well with it so far. At least he could comfort himself with that. He had not provoked war, but Javier had not needed provocation.

There was no need to think of the past, Jack reminded himself. Even if he found something that he should have done, it would not help him now. He needed to focus on the present and future. He could not change the past.

Could he fix the past, though? Time could erase his argument with Spot. It would only take an apology. To Jack, though, an apology was no small feat. To apologize was to admit that he was wrong. To admit that he was wrong was humiliating. Therefore, to apologize would be humiliating. Jack did not humiliate himself.

What had his arguments left to do? He would have to wait and see what Javier had planned. Yes, that would work, Jack decided, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in the chair. He would sit and wait.

Suddenly, Mush plopped down in the chair next to Jack's seat. He looked at Jack with a mixture of confusion and question, apparently waiting for Jack to tell him something.

Jack frowned, sitting up in his chair. He could not think of what Mush could be waiting for. Had he promised him something? The expectant look did not fade as Jack puzzled over the reason behind it.

"So, Jack, what'd you decide?" Mush, innocently unaware of the other's confusion, questioned. Suddenly, Jack remembered. Mush had brought the note to him. Jack must have promised to tell him his plan of action after he had worked it out. He was waiting for Jack to explain. A proud grin formed as Jack congratulated himself on solving the mystery.

"Oh, we're gonna wait and see what Javiah does. Then we'll know what we should do," Jack told him, the plan suddenly seeming unsatisfactory. It was so short, so simple. Mush obviously felt the same, for he frowned.

"That's it?" he appeared confused and disappointed with the outcome. "How can that be it? No offense or nuttin', but I don't think it's gonna work."

"Hey, it's a great plan. It'll work," Jack responded, with much more confidence in his tone than in his heart. The doubt he felt caused him to answer Mush more harshly than he normally would have, surprising the other boy. The words did not hit Mush, for he was feeling too much hurt at the tone they were uttered in. Jack never spoke to him that way. Was he mad?

"Alright, Jack, sorry," he mumbled, moving to stand. Jack had forgotten he was there, having slipped back into thought about the situation.

"What are you talking about, Mush? You didn't do nuttin'. Maybe you're right."

"Thanks, Jack," he brightened up considerably at this. With a smile, he walked away.

"Right, right," Jack absentmindedly waved his hand. The issue of his actions was prominent again. He could not do nothing. If Mush, who was not one of the more violent newsies, felt his plan was wrong, the others would surely reject it. He was beginning to see its many faults. For example, what if Javier attacked them outright? Manhattan would certainly lose. They could not lose. That was a fact. If the Bronx gained territory in Manhattan, who would be the next to fall? There was also the matter of what the other territories would think of Manhattan. Jack knew they already felt that they were below them, one of the weaker boroughs. He did not want to add to that reputation.

Here was the choice. Jack could try to do it alone, knowing the full effects of the almost certain loss. He would risk his newsies well-being and lives, their jobs, and their reputations. He would also add to Javier's power and influence. However, the other option was no more appealing. He could apologize to Spot, thereby gaining Brooklyn's support.

Doubt flashed into his mind. What if Brooklyn still did not help? Then, he would have embarrassed himself to no purpose. Manhattan would still lose.

Now was not the time to doubt. Jack knew which action he had to take. The only obstacle left was convincing himself to go through with it. He decided to take advantage of this resolution and being the process, preventing his backing out later on.

Jack rose, quickly searching the bunkroom for Swifty. Where could he be? Jack continued to look until his eyes fell upon the boy's bed. Still asleep at this hour? Jack smirked. Most of the other boys had gone off to sell already.

"Swifty," he shook the newsie's shoulder. He heard a groan as the boy rolled over.

"What is it, Jack?" his voice displaying the grogginess as he rubbed his eyes.

"I need you to go to Brooklyn."

"Ok, right," Swifty sat up, putting on his shoes, still half-asleep.

"Don't you wanna know why I'm sending you to Brooklyn?" Jack laughed, amused at Swifty's drowsiness.

"Oh, yeah," he grinned sheepishly up at Jack. "Might help."

"Maybe," Jack smirked. "I need you to ask Spot if he'll come here and talk with me. I gotta tell him something."

"Do you think he'll come? I mean, after…" he trailed off, not wanting to offend Jack. Swifty doubted that Spot would come. His temper was quite strong and Jack had insulted him twice.

"I gotta try," Jack shrugged. "So, you ready?"

"Yeah, I'll do my best, Jack," he nodded, standing up. Jack patted his shoulder once before Swifty left. He had a long walk ahead of him.

Jack proceeded to sell, though thoughts of Swifty's returning message occupied his mind. He quit early, unable to concentrate.

Later that evening, Swifty returned, much to Jack's relief.

"What'd he say?" Jack questioned, not waiting a moment.

"He didn't seem that mad, but he said that you had to come down there. He wasn't coming up to see you. But I really think that he may listen to what you got to say," Swifty assured him.

"Thanks, I'll go tomorrow," Jack sighed, heading off to bed. He supposed that this was to be expected. Spot did not enjoy traveling to suit other's needs. He relished in making them come to him. Jack was not surprised, actually. Spot usually had Jack go to Brooklyn anyway; with the two on bad terms Spot certainly was not going to travel. Jack could only hope that his seeing him at all was a good sign. He needed Brooklyn, whether he wanted to or not.

A/N: I just want to reinforce the policy I had on reviews last time. I want honest reviews. I want insults. I'm begging you, please!


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own Newsies… damn.

Chapter 2:

The water was dark. It appeared cold, even lifeless. The surface remained unmoving, even under the breeze. The wind continuously blew, determined to sway the water. It held strong. Finally, when the wind began to fade, the water rolled into a gentle wave. Only the surface moved, however.

Spot stood on the dock watching the battle. He knew there was more to the water than its surface. It was not cold and dark. After going deeper, one would find it warm, alive, and bright. The depth was worth exploring, but the surface discouraged it. Maybe Spot would visit today.

No, Jack was coming. Spot smirked. He was coming to beg for forgiveness. He did not deserve it, though he would receive it. Jack had crossed the line again. Each time, he apologized, but he never learned. Maybe Spot had been too easy on him. That would not happen today.

"Spot," a voice broke the serenity of the scene. The boy did not turn. He knew who it was.

"What is it, Sling?" his back was still facing the approaching newsie. Sling paused momentarily, marveling at the commanding presence. He had known Spot for years, but he never grew less impressive.

"Jack's coming today, ain't he?" Sling stepped forward, stopping directly behind his leader. Spot turned to face him, smirking.

"That he is," Spot responded softly, a smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. He was eagerly anticipating the visit. "That he is."

"Is it about the other night?" Sling questioned, grinning at the obvious excitement of his friend.

"Yeah, you wanna stick around? It should be a good show," the blonde offered, eyes glinting. Sling swiftly nodded in affirmation. Spot slung an arm around the other boy's shoulders. "Good."

"How do you think he'll do it?" Sling wondered, as the pair headed towards a pile of crates. Spot hoisted himself upon one before answering.

"Eh, he'll probably try to avoid it for awhile. I don't mind that. Only makes it better when it finally happens. You know, thrill of the chase, or something like that," he waved his hand in dismissal. Sling laughed, seated upon the neighboring crate. Spot leaned back, awaiting Sling's response.

"Yeah, it'd lose all of its charm if he just spit it out," he agreed. Suddenly, he turned his head to look at Spot. "Why'd he decide to do it now? He usually does it right away or waits 'til it's been a few months."

"He must need something," Spot shrugged. Jack always needed something; it was no surprise to Spot. It was never anything important. Jack would treat the matter as if it were vital, but Spot could always grant the request with no trouble. However, the fact that he could easily help did not mean that he would. "You know, one of these days, I shouldn't help him. What'd you think he'd do?"

"Same thing he does when you tell him you ain't gonna help and then do," Sling answered. "He won't know the difference."

"No; he's too damn confident. Jack always thinks I'm gonna help. I don't like it," Spot narrowed his eyes in contemplation as he voiced his thoughts. If Jack doubted Spot's ability to refuse aid, the control switched hands. It was no longer in Spot's hands. Being out of control was not something Spot enjoyed. No, Jack had to be taught a lesson.

Sling remained silent. As he watched his leader puzzle over the difficulty, the wind blew, ruffling his hair. He absently brushed away the brown strands, keeping them out of his eyes. Spot also swept his hair away, though it may have been in thought rather than annoyance.

Spot would regain control over Jack Kelly. The question was: how? The most practical plan was to refuse him. However, that lacked skill and planning. It was not elaborate or sly. It was boring. He had to play on Jack's confidence. After all, that was the most bothersome characteristic of the Manhattan newsie.

He would pretend to be wary about his decision. Spot would push Jack the point at which his confidence faltered. At that point, when Jack began to sweat, he would refuse. Spot smirked in delight at the metal picture of Jack's expression. There was nothing rarer than a humble Jack.

The frantic pleadings, though Jack would try to take as much fun out of them as possible, may be even more rewarding than his expression. Spot would listen to these arguments with an air of disdain. Finally, when Jack was on the verge of leaving, he would agree.

The lesson in this would be unmistakable. Jack would never gain have premature confidence in his approval. No, Spot had the power; Jack had nothing. That was as it should be. Spot smirked and leaned back against the crate behind him, satisfied with this.

"Just wait, Jack'll get what's coming to him," Spot remarked, staring out across the water. He then turned his gaze upon Sling. "Just wait. It should be fun."

Sling grinned, though he could not guess what Spot had up his sleeve. There was no cause in asking, either. Spot would tell, but it would be more interesting to watch it unfold. Presentation was important with Spot.

From the end of the dock, nearest to the land, a newsie stood, hesitating. His toes, clad only in dirty, worn shoes, rocked back and forth on the crack before the dock. Forward, backward, forward, backward…

Where was his courage? He had lived through tougher times. The task was simple. Walk up to Spot Conlon and his friend. Wait to be acknowledged. State that Jack Kelly had arrived. Wait to be dismissed. Turn and leave. It was simple, straightforward, and easy. What, then, was the trouble?

The trouble lay in his role. He would be assisting this. It was wrong, and he was helping it develop. Why? He wanted no part in this. The blame that could be laid upon his shoulders was too great. He was not even important. He was a messenger. That was all. This was too serious.

Only the leaders should deal with this matter. The common newsie should have no part in its planning. They were to obey their leader, not assist the transactions between two territories.

With further thought, he realized that he was not even fit for that. He was much too young. The strength that age would bring him was years away from his scrawny limbs. There was no hidden well within him. He would surely die in a fight.

What could he do, then? The only way to prove his loyalty to his leader was to bring the message. It would be easy to have someone else do it; let someone else carry the weight of responsibility upon their soul. However, easy was not right. The hard path was the right path. He must risk something to gain anything.

Backward, forward, backward, forward… He stepped onto the dock. One slow footstep followed another. Where were his feet leading him? No, his feet were leading him nowhere. He was walking. It was his decision. It must be.

Before he knew it, he stood before Spot Conlon. His heart pounded, nearly ramming through his chest. The moisture deserted his mouth. It seemed to have migrated to his forehead, where sweat poured out. He swallowed, his dry throat barely remembering its duty. Had Spot seen him? Should he speak? Why was his chest heaving like that? Should he leave?

The pounding in his chest nearly drown out the next words. "You got something to say?" The blue eyes watched him. The mouth turned upwards at the corners, as though hiding a grin. Spot leaned forward, toward the boy.

He could not speak. His mouth was still dry, though he was uncertain that he could speak even if it were flooded with water. His heart beat faster yet. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he forced words from his parched throat.

"Jack's here," he stated. His leader's face leaned back, an eager glint visible within the blue eyes. Suddenly, the sweat on his forehead felt cold. It was over. His heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat ceased. He sighed in relief as he caught his breath.

"You's a good kid," Spot reached over and ruffled the boy's hair playfully. He barely acknowledged it, though he would ponder of it that night, when the shock was over.

He took this as a dismissal and turned. With one step after another, he walked off the dock. It was over. There was nothing to worry about, for the moment.

"Cute kid, that Mouse. He's got some potential," Spot observed, nodding in approval at the boy's retreating back.

"Yeah," a bittersweet smile passed over Sling's face. His dark, seemingly bottomless, brown eyes looked at Mouse proudly, as well as reminiscently. There was something about the touch of innocence still left in the young newsie that called back the childhood of all who saw it. He was a walking reminder of better times, for now.

Jack passed Mouse on his way onto the dock. He did not look twice at the boy. His eyes were on Spot.

Jack closed his eyes and readjusted his hat in preparation. His argument was planned out to the last word. Spot would have to help. Everything that mattered depended upon it.

"Jackie-boy," Spot nodded, remaining in his seat. The gesture did not sit well with Jack, but he was in no position to anger Spot. Their eyes met. Spot's eyes were calm, with one eyebrow above them cocked. Jack stared back, but was too nervous to keep up the gaze for more than a few moments.

Sling looked on, feeling the tension rise with each moment. The effect Spot had on people was amazing. Jack appeared more nervous than Mouse had been; he was certainly sweating more. He leaned back, ready to watch.

"Hey, Spot, how you been?" Jack asked, grinning easily. However, the easiness did not last long. Even he saw how unsatisfactory his remark had been. Spot crossed his arms and continued to stare. For a moment, he contemplated his next move. Jack already seemed ill at ease. It would not take long to wear him down.

"Aw, Jack, and heah I was thinking you didn't care," Spot smirked, sarcasm dripping off each syllable. Sling closed his eyes briefly as he chuckled derisively. He shook his head and wondered at Spot's daring. However, he reminded himself, Spot could be as daring as he liked; it was the other boy who had to watch himself.

Spot noticed Sling's reaction and elbowed him gently, his smirk growing. His friend just let out another small chuckle. Jack had not acted, so Spot continued.

"Though, what with you ordering me outta Manhattan, I don't see what else I coulda thought," Spot shrugged as he spoke, lifting his eyebrows in feigned innocence. He could nearly feel the heat coming from Jack. His face began to redden; his body radiated the hate and anger he felt. Spot smirked inwardly.

Jack bit his tongue to hold back the sarcastic comment, trying to control his temper simultaneously. He should have guessed that Spot would attempt to provoke him. He had guessed, but he had not seen the level of shrewdness the words would possess. Not only was Spot provoking Jack, he was doing so in such a way that it would seem uncalled-for. An onlooker would not sense the provocation in Spot's words, therefore rendering any reaction of Jack's to seem an attack. Jack glared, his teeth clenched, at the Brooklyn leader. He had outsmarted him.

"I didn't mean that, you know that. Those poker games get way outta hand," Jack used his only excuse. He accompanied it with an uneasy smile, hoping with all of his might that Spot would drop the subject. One look at the boy's face slaughtered that hope, even as it took root in Jack's heart. The young face across from Jack glowered at him.

"I also know that that's bullshit, Jackie-boy. And you know it, too," he tipped his head backwards, watching Jack through narrowed eyes. It was not easy to appease an insulted Spot. He made certain of that.

Jack took a large breath. This would take every ounce of his determination. He let the air out, feeling the slight breeze as his hair stirred on his forehead. He bit his lip, searching for the perfect words. His tongue ran over his front teeth a few times, as he racked his brain.

"I'm sorry. There was no reason to call you names. You didn't cheat, I just kinda wanted to win, you know?" Jack frowned; this was killing him. Sling was surprised at how much Jack was revealing. He had expected a small apology, Spot must have been right. Jack needed something.

Spot had not moved. The picture in front of him was extremely enjoyable. Jack was nearly groveling at his feet, begging for forgiveness. This may be a slight exaggeration, but it was not hard to picture Jack in that position.

"Anyway, there wasn't no reason for me to act like that. I'm real sorry," Jack finished, wincing as the words came out. The humiliation was nearly too much, but it was necessary. Spot had to be in a good mood to hear his proposition.

Jack looked up; Spot had not moved. Should he go on? Spot appeared to be waiting, but for what?

Spot knew that Jack wanted something from him. Had he felt generous, he would have brought up the topic. However, he was trying to make Jack uncomfortable. Watching the sweat drip down Jack's face, the way his feet were shuffling, and his darting eyes, Spot knew he was succeeding. He would not help now.

Jack decided to be bold and bring up the issue with the Bronx. "I got something to ask you."

"Yeah?" Spot cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the request. Jack nervously ran a hand through his hair, pushing the hat off his head. He had forgotten it was there.

"Javier sent this note over to Manhattan, see? We found it on the door of the Lodging House," Jack explained. His desperation and fear of the war caused him to abandon all hope of being collected.

"Yeah?" Spot's tone did not change. He still appeared bored and disinterested in Jack's trouble, but he had leaned forward slightly. Javier? This could prove to be a more complicated and serious matter than he thought.

Sling's eyes had widened at the mention of the Bronx leader. He had heard stories about him. There was not a newsie in New York who had not. The tales of Javier were tales of violence, death, and torture. They were used by the other territories to frighten younger newsies into remaining with them. However, there were plenty of newsies in the Bronx. They were cold-hearted and strong boys, also. The power Javier wielded was amazing.

"He declared war on us, Spot," Jack's voice sounded weak and faint, though there was a note of despair to it. It was the first time he had voiced the news. It scared him to death. Hearing it spoken validated it. The war was real.

Spot, despite his effort to restrain himself, could not stop his eyebrows from flying upwards. He had underestimated the request by miles. All plans of refusing Jack flew out the window. Spot would need to consider the situation seriously and carefully. One could not rush into an issue such as this.

Jack was in trouble. His newsies could not handle this. The Bronx was powerful. Each newsie was trained from childhood to be tough, resilient, strong, and a brilliant fighter. A much stronger territory would have trouble winning this. Manhattan was not one of those territories.

Jack did not have the same control over his newsies as Javier had over his. A Bronx newsie was trained to live by this code: Obey and live, disobey and die. Jack was too kind-hearted for such a rule. The Manhattan newsies were loyal because they were his friends. Friendship was important, but would it hold up?

Looking back at the strike, Spot thought it would. The Manhattan newsies were more like a family than those in any other territory. They were willing to stick together against all odds. He had no reason to doubt their loyalty to Jack and one another. Their strength, however, was doubtful. This very friendship, which bound them together, made them less experienced in violence. In other territories, fighting was a daily occurrence, something than any newsie would have to deal with. There were enemies, such as the Delancey's, but in greater numbers. The Manhattan newsies would need to be trained and taught.

There was no question about Jack's actions. He needed help. Could Spot give it? Would Spot give it? It was not as simple as helping a friend. There were risks that called for attention. He had to consider his newsies' well-being, his territory's safety, and the opinion of the other areas if he were to lose.

His newsies were strong. That was certain. The majority could win any fight they battled. He was not worried for their sakes. It was the other group, the younger newsies, which held his concern. They could not fight well enough. They could survive on the streets, but not against boys twice their size with twice their strength. To involve them was murder.

However, they did not need to fight. Spot could only use a selected group of newsies. He certainly had enough. Still, it was not so simple. The younger newsies would not accept their being excluded from participating. They were young, but they were loyal. Their territory could not go to war without them. It would disappoint them horribly to bar them from going. Also, there was no guarantee that all the fighting would take place away from Brooklyn. The younger boys would be in danger then, also.

Aside from his newsies, there was his territory. What if they lost to Javier? He would lose land as well as newsies. Territory was important. He could not risk it.

His name, the name of Brooklyn, would be on the line. If he lost, his reputation would suffer. Other boroughs would decide he was weak and attack Brooklyn. The fear would be gone. The respect would be gone. His pride would be gone.

Still worse, what if his newsies turned on him? If he lost, both land and lives would have been sacrificed for nothing. His newsies would not stand for that, he was certain of this. It would be beyond painful to have his own newsies turn their backs and choose another leader. It hurt him to imagine it.

However, to focus solely on the negative was not to fairly assess the situation. The direness of the issue required a just evaluation.

He would be helping Jack and the other Manhattan newsies. It was not fair to desert them when they were in need. This, too, would be murder.

The benefits of winning needed consideration, also. Undoubtedly, if he won, there would be territory to gain. Defeating Javier would have other profits. All the other boroughs would fear and respect Brooklyn. The increase in their power would be amazing, unbelievable.

It was a difficult decision. He could help Jack and reap the benefits of a win, or lose everything. He could not help and leave Jack in a lurch, thereby saving his newsies, or lose the opportunity to increase his fame and the friendship of Jack.

He studied Jack, who had not moved or spoken since dropping his news upon Spot. He had recovered himself, using Spot's distraction to his advantage. Now, he appeared composed, though Spot could see the anxiety and desperation in his eyes.

How could he refuse him? It would be cruel. Spot could not turn down the plea for help and retain respect for himself. Leaving Jack to fend for himself against such an opponent was horrible.

He could maneuver around the danger, ensuring the safety of his newsies. Spot would not lose. He would use proper planning and tactics to make certain of that. Losing was out of the question.

Brooklyn would ally with Manhattan. Spot would bring his newsies into this war. He could only hope that they would win.

Spot drew himself out of his thoughts. He focused his eyes, observing the other two. Sling was watching Spot, unmoving. The decision he made would affect him, also. His mind whirled, just trying to decide. He could not handle the responsibility.

Jack was staring at the wooden boards under his feet. His mind was nearly blank, only focusing on Spot. However, watching the leader shed no light on where his thoughts were going. Suddenly, his head stirred. Jack's heart jumped.

He had been waiting for this moment for nearly two days. He was eager to hear the answer. He could hardly wait. Now that it was here, he was not sure that he wanted to know.

"What're you gonna do?" Spot questioned, slowly and carefully. His eyes searched Jack's expression. Though Spot had concluded this decision, Jack had not yet posed the request.

"What can I do? It ain't like he gave me a choice. I-… I can't do it on my own, though," Jack faltered, but finished. He asked. Now he only had to wait for an answer.

Spot smirked. "So, Jack, you just gonna come running to Brooklyn every time you get into trouble? It won't last forever, you know. Sometime, you gotta stand on your own," he crossed his arms and sat back to watch Jack's reaction.

Sling raised his eyebrows in Spot's direction, but his gaze was purely on Jack. In one blow, Spot had managed to hit multiple weak points in Jack's ego. Sling turned his attention onto Jack, for he was just as interested in his reaction as Spot.

"Hey, we don't need Brooklyn. There are other boroughs, you know," Jack retorted.

"Yeah, but who wants to help a borough that can't pull its own weight? Admit it, Brooklyn's all you got," Spot continued, glaring at Jack's daring. Jack needed Brooklyn, and Spot was not going to let him pretend that he did not. If he were to take such a large risk and help in this war, he would be duly appreciated.

"What're you saying? You think Manhattan can't do anything on its own?" Jack questioned, fuming. He knew that Manhattan was not the strongest borough, but Spot had no right to imply that they were too weak to survive alone.

"Sounds that way, don't it?" a smirk accompanied this answer. There was no pressure upon Spot; he knew what the outcome would be. Therefore, he could enjoy the show without worries.

Sling did not have this benefit. He did not know the inner workings of Spot's mind. He would only know what Spot implied through his words. The conclusion Jack and Sling could draw was a negative response. However, Sling knew better than to assume anything about Spot. Jack was certain he would refuse to help.

"You know what, if you ain't gonna help me out, I'll just leave," Jack shook his head, attempting to resist the urge to attack Spot. It would be foolish, even if they were alone. Spot was a better fighter than Jack was. He was better than most people were. In addition, they were in Brooklyn. Sling was sitting directly next to Spot. Jack knew that Sling was not weak. He may not appear strong, but he was. Spot had the same trick. Neither had visible muscles, but they were there.

"Jack, calm down," Spot waved his hand while looking away, disgusted with Jack's rash actions. He took the fun out of everything. "I'll help you out."

Jack stared, in complete shock, as Spot proved him wrong. For a few moments, he could not move. He had been so certain that Spot was refusing that he had begun plans of asking other territories for help. After shattering his hope, Spot turned around and agreed.

Spot laughed easily. "What, Jack? Did you really think I would leave you high an' dry like that? C'mon, I ain't that cruel, am I?"

Jack grinned like a small child. "Nah, but you's a damn bastard for making me think it."

"Now, now, no need for names," Spot joked, shaking his head in amusement.

Sling remained quiet, taking notice of the change of atmosphere. With Spot's alliance, the tension had disappeared. The mood was jovial, happy. The difference was incredible.

The three remained on the dock for a bit longer, but Jack expressed a need to return to Manhattan and inform them of the news. He returned to Manhattan, his mood far better than it had been upon his departure.

Spot and Sling remained on the dock, neither having something else to do. A cool breeze picked up, arriving with the dark.

"So, you're joining a war against the Bronx," Sling stated. He felt the need to discuss this decision. Spot may have been confident in his choice, but Sling wanted reasoning.

"Yeah, I couldn't decently do anything else. It woulda been murder to leave 'em alone," he replied, looking at the dock, but lifting his eyes to meet Sling's at the last sentence. He sat up. "Don't worry about it. I got it under control. We'll be fine."

With these words, Spot stood and walked off the dock. Sling stayed behind, pondering those words. Spot would not have involved them in something Brooklyn could not handle. He seemed confident. Sling should share that. However, one question remained. Would they be fine?

A/N: I'm sorry for the long time between updates. It was awfully long this time. But I did update! Oh, that reminds me. All stories will be finished, though there may be long pauses. I don't see it happening again for a while, but in case it does happen again, I want everyone to know that I will not abandon a story.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Disney owns _Newsies_ and the characters in it.

Chapter 3:

An abandoned factory building lay in the Bronx, decaying. Years ago, workers had populated it, when it was a textile factory. However, when the top two floors collapsed, officials deemed it unsuitable. No one cared enough to repair it.

The remaining floors were bare of machinery. Some left with the owners. Some left with thieves, people willing to sell anything for money. Anything of value was gone. The bones of men, women, and children that had been working on the two collapsed floors, as well as the third that they crushed underneath them, remain.

However, it is not certain that all of the remains are from that accident. Vacant buildings are tempting homes for the homeless. They are the ideal location for a murder. Death can occur, but no one will be around to witness it. At least they have some use.

It is a brick building. The bricks are faded and covered in a black substance that would be impossible to identify. Streaks of it run up and down the outer walls. Planks of dirty wood cover the windows. Some are hanging off at strange angles, the nails fallen or torn out. The plank that covered the doorway is missing entirely. Any passerby could see straight inside the ground room, or would have been able to, were there enough light to discern more than shadowing shapes.

This building, unable to support its own weight, not capable of providing a decent home for rats, unsuitable for the daily occupation of factory workers, was the home of the Bronx newsies.

A fire had left them homeless. This fire had burned down the lodging house where many of the boys had spent their entire lives. This building had seemed ideal. It was deserted, therefore could fit them. It was out of public view, therefore safe from the police. They could do as they pleased there.

The Bronx newsies created the center of their group from the basement of this building, a crude, dark, cement room. All discussions took place there. Traitors feared it, for their punishments would occur there. Some newsies never saw it, for those residing there did not need them. If one was not a leader or advisor, one was thankful not to see it.

Down in the basement, the thick cement walls smothered the screams. It was a feature that they never took the time to appreciate, but would have sorely missed.

Javier sat in a chair in the basement. It was a simple, old, wooden chair, but he made it seem like a throne. In a way, it was. He leaned back, leisurely, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He took notice of neither the torn condition of his pants, nor the inch or so of brown ankle they exposed. On the street, it was all too common.

He rested his thin arms on either side of the chair, squeezing lightly in anticipation. His mouth was curved into a cruel smirk, exposing only a small portion of his teeth. Javier's eyes glittered maliciously. The brown depths, far darker than the brows above them, appeared endless. The bottomless eyes were filled with anger and expectation.

In front of him, three newsies stood, a fourth on his knees between them. The standing three were large, muscular, and angry. There were clenched fists as well as stretching muscles. They appeared prepared to attack at a moment's notice. Their eyes were glued upon Javier.

The boy, for he was not nearly old enough to be a man, remained upon his knees. His head was bowed down, his stare fixed upon the cold, hard floor. He clasped two filthy hands behind his back. He could barely breathe, for he focused nearly all of his energy upon resisting the urge to shake violently with fear.

Javier did not glance at the three standing newsies once. His eyes were fixed upon the lowered, brown head in front of them. He toyed with the idea of letting the boy make the first move, forcing him to begin that which he dreaded. As pleasant was that would be, patience was not among Javier's virtues.

"Thomas, what do you have to say for yourself?" Javier questioned, his voice hard and deep, his eyes burning into the brown head of the newsie before him.

Thomas lifted his head, his eyes full of confusion. He looked helplessly up at his leader. There was no change in his expression, but his mind was racing. The unfortunate boy had no idea what he had done. He had committed crimes before, but none that should arouse displeasure among other newsies. Thomas searched through his memories. What had he done?

"I… I don't know-… What've I done?" he stuttered and stumbled upon the words. He winced inwardly. Javier would not like that. Nervous and frightened newsies were weak. Weakness was intolerable.

"What have you done?" Javier repeated, narrowing his eyes. The frown was so deep that his eyebrows nearly touched. "What have you done? Can you not remember? Well, I will help you. What you have done," he sneered, leaning forward in his seat, "is weak, dishonorable, and against my wishes."

Javier paused there. He watched as Thomas frantically attempted to make sense of the situation. Sweat appeared on his forehead and his eyes dropped to the floor once more. They both knew that Javier would not wait much longer.

Thomas wanted to find the answer. His stupidity would only increase his punishment. His eyes seemed to be searching as he pawed through his memories for the answer. Petty thefts, fights, deaths, and lies swirled as he dismissed each one. Thomas knew that these were acceptable. He had learned them among these newsies, after all.

Suddenly, one night forced itself to the surface. The streets were slick from the rain that day, the air cool. Thomas had been out with a few fellow newsies at a bar. They stumbled down the street, singing jumbled lyrics to different songs, but it did not matter. The alcohol brought happiness. They took no notice of the late time, having no care for those trying to sleep. The singing only paused when a girl, prostitute or not, walked by. Whistling and mumbled, rude comments took its place. This was dangerous enough. However, it was only in a drunken state that any newsie from the Bronx would do what Thomas had proceeded to do.

Thomas, caught up in song, tripped over his own legs, hitting the street with his face. He grinned and broke out into laughter as he sat up, wiping mud from his cheek. Before he could call out for the group to wait, he caught sight of a girl. She was scurrying home with a loaf of bread clutched to her chest. Her dark hair was pulled back, though sweaty wisps had escaped, identifying her as a factory girl. Her worn dress and shoes supported the assumption. Thomas, through his hazy vision, saw the most beautiful creature that could walk the planet.

In a flash, Thomas was on his feet and heading towards the girl. She saw him coming, but could not escape before his hand closed around her arm. She found herself with her back against the wall and Thomas' horrible breath being blown into her face. She winced, closing her eyes. The loaf of bread lay in a puddle at her feet, a causality of the struggle. Thomas kicked it aside and pressed his lips to hers. She screamed helplessly as he continued.

Thomas' own eyes were squeezed shut as he recalled that night. How had he forgotten that night? More importantly, how had he forgotten Javier's rules? He should have known better. He did know better. Unfortunately, what he had done was done. Javier would accept no excuses. However, he could try to explain and repair the situation.

"I'm sorry... I was drunk-"

"You were drunk?" Javier repeated, his eyes flashing dangerously. Thomas shrunk away, his eyes wide. Javier barely restrained himself. Why did this boy think it his place to insult his leader that way? His audacity was amazing. What was this boy, ruder and weaker than a child, doing among his newsies? How had he missed such faults? There was the lack of backbone, the fear, the stupidity, and the impudence. At least he had one comfort. He would not be around much longer.

Thomas, despite his best effort, could not hold back a tremor. It was slight, but did not escape Javier's notice. Thomas was terrified. Were Javier not so furious, this fact would have pleased him. As it was, it only served to increase the hate he felt for his newsie.

"You were drunk," Javier stated, leaving Thomas to wonder for a moment where this would lead. Maintaining a calm tone, Javier continued. "Let me ask you a question. How does that excuse you?" He straightened in his seat. "She was raped. This does not change because you were drunk. Though it may appear as a dream to you, your actions when drunk are just as real as when you are not. If you had murdered someone, would your having been drunk bring them back to life?"

"No," Thomas whispered, his head bowed again. Guilt took a firm hold upon his heart, gripping it tightly. He could scarcely breathe as he realized what he had done. Javier was right. No excuses would be accepted because nothing could excuse him.

"That's right. And I assume you know my views on rape. So, we have agreed that you have committed a crime against my wishes, which were known by you, and are fully responsible for. Now," he addressed the three standing newsies for the first time. They had not missed a moment of the scene and were fully prepared to follow Javier's orders. Slight smiles formed on their faces as their fists clenched and muscles flexed.

Javier viewed their actions with pleasure. These were good newsies. They did not disobey him; in fact, they obeyed his slightest wish. With a cruel smirk, Javier decided the fate of Thomas.

"Kill him."

Thomas' eyes flew up to Javier's face, staring with horror into the eyes of the boy with so much power over him. His disbelief and fright met with coldness and hate. All hope of being saved was frozen in those eyes.

He was about to die. A pang in his heart accompanied this realization. He had suspected this end since he recalled his crime, but the fact had hit him as hard as though it had been a surprise. There is no way to prepare for being sentenced to death.

How would it end? He had lived this life for so long, but had never considered how it would end. It had been something he always expected to have. Life was not something one lost like a watch or was stolen like money. It was attached to him, as closely as his hand. It was integral to every aspect of his actions, but he had never considered what would happen without it. Thomas was not one to ponder the mysteries of the world as some did. He did not read poetry and had no interest in paintings. He was more practical than that. However much he had loved the way he had lived, he suddenly wished he had read something. He did not have to agree with it or even think about it much. It would be nice, he decided, to have some idea of what was to come.

There was not much time to think, however. The three newsies whom Javier trusted for this task lost no time in beginning. Evidently, this was not their first time.

The death for this type of traitor was not quick and simple. They had been a friend who had betrayed Javier and all of the newsies, not merely an enemy. He was not being killed for a victory; he was being punished.

Javier watched as his loyal newsies began to beat the offender. They would go slowly, causing as much pain as he saw fit. When he believed that the offender had been punished enough or he grew bored, he would signal for them to kill.

He would often let them go on for a long time, reveling in the antics of the offender. In this case, Javier was already sick of the boy. He was weak and had given in to the pain long ago. It was disgusting. He waved his hand, frowning in displeasure.

One newsie took hold of the traitor with one hand on his head and the other around his chest. Another stood back, clearing the way for the third, who had just flipped out a knife. The shining blade approached the already bloodied neck slowly, or so it seemed to Javier. No matter how cowardly the offender was, bloodshed could always interest him. He noted that his eyes were closed, squeezed tightly as sweat made paths in the blood on his face. Time continued to move slowly as the newsie dragged the knife along the neck, opening it as he went. The newsie holding him let go in disgust as blood poured onto his arm. The body fell to the floor and lay in a bloody heap.

Javier nodded to them. "You may go. Take that with you," he waved a hand at the body. Two grabbed it, one at the head and the other at the foot, and carried it away, the third following closely. The only evidence of Thomas left was a puddle of blood on the floor, which ran into a small stream that ran to the door. Javier was on the verge of calling for someone to clean it up when his messenger entered.

"I got the news from Manhattan. Do you wanna hear it now?" Harold questioned, remaining near the doorway, should Javier send him away. His thin limbs shook slightly, but not with fear, Javier noted. The basement was rather cold.

"Yes, what did Jack say?" a shade of mockery entered his tone upon pronouncing 'Jack'. He was no real threat. Javier leaned forward in this seat slightly in order to hear the news.

Harold swiftly made his way to Javier's side, sidestepping the blood without a second look. He cleared his throat before beginning.

"Well, Jack was scared. I heard he barely sold the whole day. Anyway, he ran over to Brooklyn soon as Spot would let him. I don't know exactly what happened in there; I couldn't get in. You know how tight Spot's security is. Anyway, I heard the results. Spot's helping him."

Javier leaned backwards, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully. This could be good news. Manhattan alone had been no challenge, but a necessary acquisition to make. He needed more territory, after all. His newsies were expanding in number and becoming more aggressive daily. There were also a fair number of good sellers among them. They could not continue to sell in their limited area. However, it would have been boring to fight only Jack's boys. As much as they needed the land, a good war would not hurt. That is exactly what Javier would get with Brooklyn involved. They were far more worthy to fight the Bronx than Manhattan.

Harold looked on nervously. He was not frightened for himself, but Javier always made him nervous when he was thinking. It was impossible to tell what was happening within his mind, causing the outcomes of his thinking to be quite surprising. Remaining silent, he shifted his weight to his left leg.

"Good," Javier stated, startling Harold so much so that he nearly lost his balance. His mouth curved into a smile, "Thank you, Harold."

"Of course. I'll keep you updated," he bowed slightly and slipped out of the room. After a few moments, his head popped back in. "You want someone to clean that up?" He gestured towards the blood.

Javier nodded, already lost in thought about the upcoming war. Another positive aspect of Brooklyn's participation had occurred to him. He stood up, strolling over to the dirty window. Javier looked up towards the passing boots, though he was seeing something else.

"So, I will finally meet the illustrious Spot Conlon."


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: No, _Newsies_ is not mine. Quit asking!

Chapter 4:

Racetrack, sitting with Kid Blink and Mush on the front steps of the lodging house, closed his eyes and turned his face upwards, relaxing under the warm sun. It was a wonderfully warm day; the boys had stopped selling early to enjoy it.

"Hey, Race, look who's coming," Mush exclaimed, bringing Racetrack back from the edge of sleep. "Did Jack say anything about Spot coming?"

"Spot?" Racetrack repeated, straightening up while blinking slowly. He turned his gaze to follow Mush's as he regained consciousness. At the corner of the block, Racetrack could see Spot, accompanied by a brown haired boy whom Racetrack could not clearly see, strolling towards them. "Yeah, I think he said something about it. But that mighta been him bragging about how he got Spot to help us again."

"What's he doing here, then? Spot don't usually come to Jack," Kid Blink observed. After a pause, he questioned, "Do you think it's about this thing with the Bronx?"

"Maybe," Racetrack replied. Jack had been rather quiet about the Bronx situation. He would tell anyone with ears, and Skittery swore he saw him talking to a mop once, about his talk with Spot and how he cunningly tricked him into agreeing, but was not so open about plans. Unfortunately, all they wanted to know about were the plans. Manhattan had not been involved in a war for longer than most newsies there could recall. They did not know how it was done, but were very eager to learn. "Hey, Spot!"

Still a few buildings away, Spot turned from his companion, whom Race now recognized as Sling, with a grin still fading from his face. The grin returned when he saw the group on the steps. He turned back to Sling and they hurried toward the lodging house.

Mush had jumped up from the steps, all laziness forgotten in the excitement of visitors. He now held out a hand to Spot, only a bit prematurely, as Spot reached the steps a minute later.

"Hi, Spot! How you been?" Mush smiled widely. He then offered his hand to Sling, shaking the one offered in return. "Hey, Sling. What're you guys doing here?"

"I'm talking with Jack," Spot answered, looking past Mush to the door of the lodging house. This glance was in place of asking Jack's location.

"Yeah, Jack's upstairs, but I wanna talk with you," Racetrack put a hand on Spot's arm as he spoke. Spot looked at the dark-haired boy with curiosity, his eyebrows slightly raised. "Look, Jack ain't said much 'bout this stuff," here Racetrack waved his arm vaguely, accentuated how little he knew of the affair, "with the Bronx. We gotta know something, Spot."

Racetrack spoke with such melancholy and looked with such desperation to Spot for answers, as did the other two boys, that Sling nearly broke down and told all that he knew. Spot, as if expecting this reaction from his friend, rushed his reply.

"I'm sure Jack told you enough. There ain't much to tell anyway. I'm here today to talk 'bout plans with him. After this, there'll be something to tell," seeing that Racetrack, Mush, and Kid Blink were not convinced, he promised, "I swear that Jack'll tell you what you need to know when we're done."

Spot's expression required some answer, so the boys nodded and quietly murmured agreements. He nodded to them and brushed past, heading towards the lodging house. Sling followed, his gaze lingering on their dejected faces.

The pair was silent as it began the staircase, but Sling could not keep quiet.

"He ain't told them anything?"

"There ain't much to tell," Spot responded, though his tone had none of the conviction it had possessed before; it was rather empty.

"There seemed to be plenty when you told us 'bout it," Sling muttered, midway between annoyance at Spot's attitude towards him and fear of upsetting him.

"I know," Spot replied quietly, looking back at Sling, worry in his eyes.

The bunkroom was filled with the usual activities, though they seemed a bit more sluggish because of the heat. There were boys washing, sleeping, gambling, talking, and numerous other forms of entertainment. A stench hung over the whole room. This odor was the combination of sweat and smoke, which is quite common during the summer. The noise was terrible to unaccustomed ears, but phased neither Spot nor Sling.

Jack was easily located in the center of the room. The one table had been dubbed the location of the major poker game. There were smaller ones scattered throughout the room, but they were located in corners or on beds.

Spot and Sling made their way, unobstructed, to Jack. He was absorbed in the game and did not notice Spot until he cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly. At that point, he tilted his face upwards, expecting one of his newsies.

"Jack, we need to talk," Spot solidly stated. After he spoke, he set his mouth in a firm line and stood still, one hand on his cane, the other hanging by his side, and his gaze fixed upon Jack.

"Alright," Jack answered, annoyed at the interruption, but in no position to anger Spot. He stood up and addressed the newsies at the table, all of whom were watching him. "C'mon, get outta here."

The newsies made their ways to the door, some grumbling in low voices, but none daring to argue or stay. Satisfied, Spot took a seat opposite Jack's seat. Sling followed him and sat down next to him. Jack watched Sling for a moment, still miffed at Spot's evident superiority.

"What? My newsies gotta leave, but not him?" Jack muttered to his lap, but loudly enough for Spot to hear.

Sling shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning slightly red. Spot, taking this as a sign of his leaving, put a hand around his arm and held it to the table. Sling became more ill at ease, worried that he would be the cause of a sour meeting.

"He stays, Jack," Spot worked to keep his teeth unclenched as he spoke; it was too early to begin a fight.

"Right," Jack gave in, as he had never known Spot to do anything important without Sling and this was not worth causing trouble over. He lifted his gaze to Spot, waiting for him to begin.

Spot cleared his throat, "Wish I was here on more pleasant business, but we gotta discuss the war with the Bronx. We need a plan."

The words brought a slew of thoughts to Jack. They would have a plan. Is that how these things worked? His fantasy of wars had always been simpler. He saw a heroic victory, and that was all. The process had never crossed his mind. Obviously, Spot knew much more about this than Jack; he would have to be careful to disguise his ignorance.

"Yeah," Jack agreed, waiting a moment to see what Spot would do. The blond haired leader lapsed into thought; Jack followed suit.

After a moment, Jack began to wonder what Spot was considering for so long. It had not taken him long to come up with a plan. It was simple: they attacked. That was how wars were, after all. The two sides met in battle. The most obvious thing was to attack. That would give them the advantage. So, what was Spot thinking?

Jack was correct in assuming that Spot knew more than he did about this. However, 'this' included not only war, but also the Bronx. Spot knew what formidable opponents they were and how much it would take to beat them. He understood that the underdogs of the war were Jack and himself. Therefore, the Bronx would set the terms, whether Jack liked it or not. Spot was dissatisfied with the situation as well, but he needed no convincing to see that it must be that way.

Spot was wondering what the Bronx would do. They had sent the note, but that was a warning. Javier had yet to show how this war would be executed. It was difficult to determine a plan when the terms were unset. The most he and Jack could do was plan a response to the various tactics Javier may employ. This question is what kept Spot in thought for so long.

Sling had sat silently during this time, his own thoughts, unrelated to the topic, passing through his mind. The one thought that stood out from the rest was the thought of contributing to the conversation. Spot liked to keep him around during meetings and would even ask his opinion occasionally. This is what he dreaded as Jack and Spot thought. He knew what he believed about selling spots and other small things, but this was massive. He worried about the fact that what he said might affect others. What if he were wrong? Sling did not want that responsibility, and so feared that Spot would ask him to accept it.

Sling shifted again in his seat at the picture of faces contorted with anger. The faces he knew well, they were those of his fellow newsies. He did not want to anger them, should he make a wrong decision. He squirmed a bit more.

His friend's movements brought Spot from his mind. He glanced over, wondering what it was that made Sling's expression so strange. He would ask later. A glance across the table showed him that Jack was ready to talk.

Meeting Spot's eyes, Jack determined that he could now speak.

"Alright. Why don't we beat 'em to the chase, you know? Make the first move? I say we take 'em head on," determination was written all over Jack's face as he spoke. He looked like a brave general proposing the perfect plan. Unfortunately, this was only half right.

"No, Jack," Spot shook his head slightly. He leaned forward with his arms on the table to explain. "We can't do that."

"Why not?" he furiously demanded. Slamming his fist on the table, he continued, "We can't let 'em think we're afraid. Why not start it ourselves?"

"Jack," Spot patiently broke in. "The Bronx is experienced in this kinda thing. They're real strong. We gotta be careful."

"C'mon, the two of us together can take 'em any day," Jack waved his hand dismissively, matching his tone. "With Brooklyn, we can do anything."

"Jack, if you're attacking the Bronx like that, you're on your own. I ain't bringing my boys into something like that," Spot warned him. "I don't like murder."

"Murder?" Jack echoed, visibly confused by Spot's wording.

"Yeah, that's what that is, Jack. You send your boys in there, I guarantee you won't have a single one return to you," he explained.

"Fine. Let's hear what you've got," Jack frowned, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair with the air of a foiled child.

"Hold on, I gotta think," Spot answered.

Jack watched, from across the table, as Spot created a plan. He saw his forehead wrinkle when a flaw was discovered, the eyebrows lift when a solution was found. He watched as Spot rubbed his chin pensively. Finally, Jack saw Spot come back, a smirk on his face.

"I got it. We gotta let the Bronx attack first. Quiet, Jack," he cut off the other's argument preemptively. "That way, they gotta come over here. We get the benefit of our turf and they're weak 'cause they can't bring everyone over."

Jack considered for a moment. It was not the glorious plan he wanted, but it was only the first battle. There would be time for heroics later. Besides, it was a bit like his idea in that it gave his side the advantage. He could live with it.

The Manhattan leader prepared to bid farewell to Spot and Sling, standing up and holding out his hand across the table. Spot took it, but had to put a last word in.

"Jack, some of the boys told me they were a bit confused 'bout what was going on. You might wanna help 'em out," he carefully chose his words, hoping to both show Jack that his newsies needed to know things and conceal that Spot knew he had not explained anything to them. Jack nodded, giving Spot reason to hope for the best.

The last piece of business taken care of, Spot and Sling could head back to Brooklyn. As they passed over the bridge, Sling asked a question that had haunted him since they sat in the Manhattan lodging house.

"Will it work?"

"Sure, what could go wrong?" Spot confidently assured him. Sling let out a relieved sigh, small, but audible. At this, a frown passed over Spot's face. What if they lost?

A/N: Well, it's been a long time since I updated. I really meant to write over the summer, but it just didn't happen. I don't think it matters, since I don't believe anyone is reading this anymore. I haven't gotten a review since chapter two (or chapter one, if we're going by titles)! I'm going to keep posting anyway, since I like the story, but if someone is reading, please review and tell me so. I could really use a critique of the story.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own _Newsies_. Disney does.

Chapter 5:

The one window in the basement, which Javier had made his office, gave a view of an endless stream of shoes. All day and all night they passed by, a few inches away, but so distant. They pounded away, none stopping to take a closer look at the building or even pausing to consider who lived there. They just passed by, a few inches above those in the basement.

Javier stood by this window, watching the feet walk by. His arms were crossed across his chest and he put all his weight on one leg, leaning slightly in that direction. He appeared bored and casual, except for the thoughtful furrows in his forehead and the frown upon his lips. His expression was enough of a clue for any Bronx newsie to realize that he should only be disturbed for the truly important.

Harold could see this as he hovered by the door. He was torn between bringing Javier's wrath down upon his head by disturbing him and bringing his wrath down upon his head by failing to carry out his orders. He could not tell what his leader was thinking, but he could see it was serious. There were some serious things that could be interrupted, like personal thoughts. However, knowing Javier, it was very likely he was thinking of plans for the war or other things that truly mattered. To disturb that type of thought could result in ruining a brilliant plan. Not only would this hurt the Bronx, but Javier would be angry.

On the other hand, Javier wanted this news. He had expressly asked for it to come quickly. It was possible that the news would help him with the war and that withholding it was causing problems. Harold hesitated a moment longer, the best thing he could have done.

Javier suddenly turned from the window, disgusted, though he knew not whether it was with the view or himself for caring. He frowned at the floor, so Harold had the opportunity to slip in without being caught hesitating.

"Javier? I told Isabel you wanted to see her."

Javier looked up from the floor to Harold's face. He nodded and motioned for Harold to continue. Harold let out a small sigh of relief and finished.

"She had to finish her part of the laundry, but she's coming now," he informed Javier quickly. His leader nodded again, then dismissed him.

It was only a moment later that the door creaked open and a head appeared through the crack.

Javier was not looking at the door, but he knew who it was. It had been a long time since they had been alone, so his mood lifted slightly. It would have flown higher had the reason for the visit not been business.

"Come in," his voice resounded in her ears. She took a deep breath, her heart fluttering with both excitement and fear. She smiled nervously as she looked at him. She never liked when he was too busy for her. After all, he was the only bright spot in her life as a newsie. It was with a slight spring in her step and trembling legs that she walked across the room.

Javier had turned his gaze back to the window and did not watch as she approached. When she finally reached him, he waited for a time that felt like an eternity to Isabel before he looked at her.

She stood and waited for him to speak. Every few moments, hope would surge up, telling her that he might not have called her for business. However, she admonished it and reminded it that she was happy to help Javier and should not expect anything from him. She loved any time spent with him.

He watched her for a few moments. Her eyes were focused on the floor and her long lashes shielding them from view. He could, however, see the slight blush coloring her cheeks. For a moment, he was disappointed that it was not pleasure that had called for the visit. However, there were important matters to be discussed, more important than these silly feelings.

"Isabel," her head snapped up when he spoke, bringing her full attention to his words. When he saw the guarded hope in her eyes, he again felt a twinge, but only a twinge, of guilt. Again he reminded himself that the war was the pressing thing. "I have a job for you."

She nodded. She had known it was business. She had told her hope that it was wrong. However, she still felt a pang of disappointment. Her hope had not listened.

"How much do you know about this war of mine?" Javier questioned as he made his way to his chair. He sat down and looked expectantly at Isabel, who had followed him over.

"Well," she began quietly. "I don't know much. It's against Manhattan and Brooklyn. If... When we win, you will have control over Manhattan... I don't know any more."

"All right, I'll help you," his voice was soft and cool, but professional. He was all business now. "Which is more of a threat to me: Manhattan or Brooklyn?"

"Brooklyn," she responded nervously.

"Good," his tone was the same as before. "Who leads Brooklyn?"

"Spot Conlon," she answered, desperately searching for the reasoning behind his questions.

"Good. You know more than you thought," he replied. "Now, I want to weaken Brooklyn. What is the best way to hurt a group?"

"Through the leader," Isabel was not quite sure of this answer, but Javier's smirk assured her that it was correct.

"Right again. I have a plan to weaken Conlon. Do you know who his best friend is?"

"No, I'm sorry," Isabel whispered, lowering her gaze to Javier's hands as her cheeks reddened.

"Slingshot Laurent," he told her, leaning back in his chair. "Now, here is my plan. I want you to go to Brooklyn and make yourself... available to Laurent. As you two get closer, I'll see what I can do with him. We may be able to bring him over to our side, at best. He'll at least have some doubts about fighting the home of his girl. And with the leader's best friend unsure, who knows how many other newsies will doubt or even oppose Conlon. When can you leave?"

Isabel had stared at his hands for the duration of his explanation, thoughts flying through her head and tears welling up. She had thought these jobs were over. It had been common, during Javier's early years as the Bronx leader, for her to have a romance with an opposing force so she and Javier could use the relationship to destroy or persuade his opponent. However, Javier had established himself over the years and opponents dwindled. Isabel had not missed the unpleasant work, preferring to take care of the newsies' laundry and rooms.

However, it was not only the unpleasant nature of the job that turned her from it and brought tears to her eyes. The more important reason that she hated to do it was that it convinced her that Javier thought little of her happiness and cared not with whom she associated. He could not care for her if he did not mind sending her off to be with another boy. This hurt.

All of her feelings were voiced in one, quietly spoken, short word.

"No."

"What?" Javier jumped out of his seat and towered over Isabel. His eyes blazed in anger and his lips were pressed together in fury. His right hand tightened into a fist, but remained at his side. What was this? It was not normal for the peaceful, quiet Isabel to argue. Had Javier not completely switched over to business, he would have considered what had aroused such strange behavior. As it was, he was infuriated by the possibility of her ruining his plans.

Isabel seemed to shrink in her fear, but did not back down. She had surprised herself with her response, but was not ready to take it back. "I don't want to," her voice trembled as she spoke.

"Isabel, it's not a question. I told you to do it. Are you going to listen or do you need to be convinced?" he spoke slowly, keeping his anger in check, though the emotion was obvious enough.

When she did not nod or verbally agree, he raised his hand up. They stared at one another for a moment, but she still did not concede. Javier moved his hand back a bit more, it was now over his shoulder, nearly behind his head. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the blow.

For a moment, it seemed as though he would do it. It seemed as though he would hit her. He was almost wanted to, but he knew that it was wrong. Javier would never hit a female. He had raised himself by this code and held his newsies to it as well. It was unfair to hurt her. She was frightened. His expression softened into one of pity at the realization. Slowly, he lowered his hand. Instead, he placed it softly on her cheek, all anger erased.

Isabel flinched, but opened her eyes. She was confused and searched his face for a hint as to what he was thinking. He no longer looked angry, but there was something about him that told her she was not going to win.

When he spoke again, his voice was smooth, persuasive, and falsely gentle. "Isabel, I need you to do this for me. It won't be so bad. It's only for a little while and it will help us all. I wouldn't send you to do something bad, would I? Don't you trust me?" He kept his hand on her cheek as he spoke, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb.

She felt herself blush. She was all too aware of his hand on her face and the proximity of his face. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and she felt as though her lungs were closing up. Half of her knew he was lying, but the other half hoped he was telling the truth. Maybe he would care for her if she did this for him. Maybe he would finally see her as more than the little girl he grew up with. Maybe.

"I'll do it."

"That's my girl," he answered, words she wanted to hear, but in a different tone. He removed his hand and backed away. "Now go get ready."

The words cut through to her heart, dashing cold water on her hopes. She left without another word or glance at him. Javier watched her leave the room and hoped that it would not be bad for her. It should not be; he had heard that Sling was kind, as newsies go.

After a moment more of consideration, he brushed it off. She would be fine and, if something did go wrong, he could fix it. Sling was not his greatest obstacle. He had a war to begin.

The note had only been a warning. The first attack, Javier decided, would also come from his side. Accordingly, Javier had met with a group of Bronx newsies, carefully chosen, to plan. Now, he was ready to put the plans into action.

Javier left the main room of the basement and walked down the dark, narrow corridor to the staircase. On the next floor, he found a number of his newsies loafing about, playing cards, smoking, drinking, or talking. Through the smoke that hung near the ceiling, he located one of the group.

Dime sat in a corner with a few others, deeply involved in a poker game. He looked at the other players as he waited for them to take their turns, trying to appear passive, but failing. His smile was clear enough through his weak poker face that it was no wonder he had earned the name 'Dime', referring to the amount of money he earned each day. With his inability to lie, none of his improved headlines was believable.

Luckily for Dime, selling ability was not all Javier valued in his newsies. What Dime lacked in deceit, he compensated for in speed and strength. These latter qualities were the reasons Javier had chosen him.

"Hey, boys," Javier greeted the group as he clapped a hand on Dime's shoulder.

"Heya, Javier. You up for some poker?" a large newsie asked over his hand.

"No, I have some things to take care of, he answered. "Dime, come with me."

The boys barely reacted to this seemingly brusque comment; it happened often enough. Javier was serious about his leadership and never mixed business with pleasure, or even politeness. Dime put down his hand, rather disappointed to lose it, and followed his leader, who was already across the room.

"Yeah?"

"We're almost ready to go. You remember what you all have to do? Which ones you have to get?" Javier spoke in a low voice as he ensured Dime was ready.

"Yeah, I gots it all up here," he answered, tapping a finger to his forehead. Javier nodded with satisfaction and gave him a half-smirk.

"I knew you would. The others may need to be reminded, so round them up and tell them they can start any time now," Javier concluded. He was about to leave, but turned back to give Dime a final piece of advice. "Make sure you space them out. It won't work if it all happens in a few days. We have to keep them on their toes."

"Right," Dime nodded.

Javier left him now, confident that he would carry out the plan correctly. Dime stepped out of the lodging house, running through the details in his mind, ensuring that he had them all.

It took him two hours to locate all the members of the group. By the time he was walking back to the lodging house, Dime was cursing New York for being so huge. He was dead on his feet, too tired to begin his assignments tonight, besides, Charlie was doing his first. Things could get complicated if they ran into one another. This had to be done in complete secret.

A/N: I rewrote several parts of this chapter because I wasn't satisfied with it. Javier was right. I'm still not sure it's as good as some other chapters or as good as I want it to be, but I'll leave it alone for now. I also made some changes to other chapters, but nothing major. I don't know when the next chapter will be up, since I haven't started it and school is going to be getting busier, with midterms and SAT prep. I apologize in advance if it takes forever. I'd like opinions on this, especially this chapter, so feel free to review!


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